


Bad blood

by Elisexyz



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Pre-Canon, Teenager Malcolm Bright, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-19
Updated: 2019-11-19
Packaged: 2021-01-30 03:34:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21421501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elisexyz/pseuds/Elisexyz
Summary: Gil didn't sign up for this (except he kind of did).
Relationships: Gil Arroyo & Malcolm Bright
Comments: 48
Kudos: 157
Collections: Found Family Bingo





	Bad blood

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MissCrazyWriter321](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissCrazyWriter321/gifts).

> This is a fill for the "You are not my real parent" prompt [on my Found Family Bingo card on Tumblr](https://heytheredeann.tumblr.com/post/189173608884/youre-not-my-real-parent-fill-for-the-found).  
  
So... I am not very familiar with the characters yet, but these two are adorable and a lot of fun to write. I hope I did alright <3 

Gil has made it his business to know all the most common places where teenagers gather these days.

Most of it, he will admit, is sheer paranoia, because for Malcolm’s bad habit of disappearing every now and then he tends to do it on his own, he must be the least social kid Gil has ever encountered in his _life_ – which is kind of worrying, if not unsurprising, given everything that he has been going through; Malcolm is way more interested in enduring stake-outs with him than in spending time with his peers, and that only worries him most days –, therefore he has no reason to assume that he’d go _there_ if he were to suddenly vanish.

But, given that it’s been a couple of hours already since Jessica has last seen him, and given that Malcolm doesn’t appear to be hiding out at any of his usual spots, Gil elects to throw an Hail Mary and begin checking local bars and the likes.

He didn’t think he’d end up actually patting himself in the back.

He finds Malcolm on his own, in spite of a couple of groups of teenagers nearby, attempting to and absolutely _failing_ _at_ walking straight.

“Jesus Christ,” Gil mutters, doing his perhaps worst job at parking in recent memory and launching himself out of the car before Malcolm can do something utterly stupid like walking into traffic or accepting a ride by a passer-by.

“Malcolm!” he calls out, causing a few heads to turn, just not the one he’s interested in. Malcolm actually keeps staggering forward until Gil finally gets a hold of his arm, pulling him back. It causes him to sway dangerously on his feet, and Gil has to grab his other arm to keep him upright, just as he registers the stink of alcohol coming off him.

If he gets his hands on the bastard that sold that shit to a clearly underage and emotionally unstable boy—

“Jesus, kid, what were you thinking?” he asks, concern colouring his tone as soon as how _miserable_ Malcolm looks comes into focus. “Your mother is worried sick!”

Malcolm literally turns up his nose at that, making a weak-ass attempt at pushing him away. It takes him a few seconds to build up the words, and eventually he only gets out, mumbled under his breath: “Leave me alone.”

“To do what, exactly?” Gil asks, raising his eyebrows eloquently. “You’re too drunk to even walk down the _street_.”

Malcolm is a kid, a teenager, and Gil knows that, legal or not, many teenagers mess up like this, have a drink with friends—this, though, looks a lot more like self-medicating, or self-destructive drinking, and to say that it’s uncomfortable to witness in someone so young would be an understatement.

Malcolm glares at him. “I can, I will, just go.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” he replies, and it comes out all too gentle when it should have been firm. “Come on, I’m taking you home.”

“No!” Malcolm protests, trying to shake him off. Gil’s grip is solid, though, so he only ends up squirming where he stands. Gil isn’t sure if his eyes are so glassy only because of the alcohol, but it tugs at his chest all the same. “Let me _go_.”

“I’m not letting you go anywhere, you have to go home—”

“You can’t tell me what to do!” Malcolm protests then, louder and only a little slurred. “You aren’t even my real dad!”

He isn’t proud to say that, for a fraction of second, his hold gets slacker, as he stands stunned in place like he has just been punched. Malcolm is looking at him with eyes full of tears and a few already rolling down his cheeks, and he’s so unmistakeably _angry_ at him, the words echoing around them like they will never leave, that there’s a split second in which Gil wants nothing better than to just say ‘Yeah, okay, kid’ and get the hell out of there.

Of all the people that he expected to call him out on _that_, Malcolm himself really didn’t make the list.

Eventually, he sucks it up, Malcolm still secured in his grip and his expression hopefully neutral enough not to give much away. “No,” he admits, calmly. “But I _am_ a cop, and you shouldn’t be drunk.”

Malcolm shrugs. “Arrest me then,” he mutters, more tired than defiant. “Bad family blood and all,” he adds, barely audible. Gil curses that ‘barely’, because he _definitely_ could have lived without hearing the devastating resignation behind those words.

He presses his lips together, drawing an heavy sigh and wondering if he actually preferred it when Malcolm was getting up in his face, compared to the way he’s now avoiding his eyes and trying to make himself small.

“Come on, kid,” he says, gently, daring to let go of one of Malcolm’s arms to cup the side of his neck. “Let’s go.”

At least, this time Malcolm follows meekly.

It’s already half-way through a silent car ride, which Gil elected to spend staring straight ahead because the kid probably needs some space and he has no idea what to say anyway – they should probably talk about it when he’s sober—or perhaps he’d just rather talk to somebody else, he imagines –, when Malcolm speaks up.

“I’m sorry,” he says, barely a shaky whisper. Gil is half-heartedly wondering if he imagined it, but a quick glance at Malcolm, all tears and fidgeting with his hands on his lap as he shakes a little on his seat, makes him think better of it. “It was a mean thing to say—I didn’t mean it—” he continues, and Gil is pretty sure his heart is breaking in more places than he would have guessed was possible.

“It’s okay,” he’s quick to say. “You didn’t say anything wrong, it’s fine.”

“I’m just _mad_ you are not my real dad,” Malcolm erupts, like he hasn’t even heard him. “I like you—you are _good_.”

Gil taps his fingers against the steering wheel, wondering what the hell he is supposed to say to that, exactly.

Malcolm sniffles, trying to wipe his cheeks.

“You know—” He pauses, clearing his throat uncomfortably. “Just because your father did some awful things—that doesn’t mean that you are like him just because you are his son. You are not _bad_ just because _he_ is. You know that, right?”

Malcolm mutters noncommittedly, which is anything but reassuring. A quick glance tells him that the kid is still crying, and that he’s stubbornly keeping his eyes fixated on his lap, his lips pressed together so tightly it looks like he’s trying not to yell.

Gil sighs, contemplating not for the first time _why_ serial killers couldn’t at least have the decency not to reproduce. There is something fundamentally unjust about a kid having to carry that much baggage.

“Alright,” he says, quietly, trying to make it sound casual. “I suppose I’ll have to stick around, remind you every now and then that you are a good kid and everything.”

He doesn’t turn around, even though he can feel Malcolm’s eyes on him. It’s an eternity later, when they are already pulling over in front of the Whitley residence, that he hears the thinnest: “You really think that?”

Gil turns around with a questioning look on his face.

“That I’m good,” Malcolm clarifies, biting his bottom lip as if he were afraid of the answer.

Gil isn’t sure if there is something melting or burning up in his chest. It’s half-way between wanting to hug the crap out of that kid, and go beat his damned father senseless.

“I _know_ that,” he says, firmly. He reaches over to squeeze his shoulder. “You saved my life, remember?”

Malcolm’s tiny smile allows him to hope that he is beginning to believe him, at least a little bit.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part of the [LLF Comment Project](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/llfcommentproject), which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates comments, including: 
> 
>   * Short comments
>   * Long comments
>   * Questions
>   * “<3” as extra kudos
>   * Reader-reader interaction
> 
> If you don’t want a reply, for any reason, feel free to sign your comment with “whisper” and I will appreciate it but not respond!


End file.
